The Missions

There’s a flu hitting and the plan is to let it take you down, then drag everyone you know down with you. Be methodical about it. Throw a proper sick party—everyone in bed, everyone miserable, the apartment smelling like medicine and sweat. It’s honest work.

Dig 200 meters straight into the earth. No reason, no explanation needed. Set up camp down there. Wait. CNN will show up eventually looking for a story. They always do.

Get a permanent marker and draw a mustache across your face. Wear it the whole day. When people react—and they will—look them in the eye and make them explain why they think it’s funny. Force them to think about their own judgment.

Move your ass.

Start a video game company. Tomorrow. Not thinking about starting it, actually start it. Make something that humiliates Nintendo. Leave them no choice but to fold.

Go find a street and cry on it. Real crying, not performing it. That feeling after—the relief and the shame mixed together—that’s what you want.

Wear only black for a week straight. It’s winter. Nothing else makes any sense.

Sleep with Avril Lavigne. I know you want to. I know it’s impossible. But you do want to, right? Just feel that wanting for a minute.

At the next house party, piss on someone’s dog and chase it through the apartment. The smell will haunt the place. The story will haunt you.

Turn on the new Crystal Fighters song and don’t turn it off for a full day. At some point, maybe around hour six or seven, you’ll suddenly realize how good it feels to swallow. That’s the whole thing. That’s the moment everything clicks.